Mortifer
by Zephyr5
Summary: Sidestory to the SerpentineCorvine Arcs Hades went on a killing spree funny how such an insignificant series of events could have such potentially farreaching consequences...


Warnings: None! Unless, of course, you're reading this out of sequence for the Serpentine/Corvine Arc in which case there are spoilers for that, except you won't know what's going on, so you'll just get confused instead :p

Disclaimers: Don't own anything canon (or the Daily Mail), probably own things non-canon, definitely own plot :)

AN: Remember the oh-so-brief mention in Serpentine of Hades going on a killing spree as he learned about his venom and abilities? Well, whether you do or not, this is the expanded version. In theory this shouldn't be too long, but hey, we'll see where it goes ;)

**Mortifer**

The idea wouldn't leave him alone. Besides, it made sense. Nye had already admitted that the humans with magic had searched for him in the beginning, there was nothing to guarantee that they wouldn't do so again. If they were going to be a threat to him - there was no getting around the fact that, as a snake, they were higher up the food chain than he, and he refused to sink to their level and turn back to a human...except when Nye enforced it - then he needed to know exactly how much of his venom would be fatal to them. It wasn't as though he had unlimited reserves of the stuff after all. However, Nye was adamant that he leave the humans in the forest alone, despite the fact that Hades ~knew~ Nye quite frequently arranged for said humans to have...accidents that were, more often than not, fatal.

But much as he chafed and argued against Nye's declaration that the humans in the forest were off-limits, Hades knew better than to break the rule and suffer the wrath of the forest Guardian. It wasn't until June that Nye, finally despairing of Hades actually figuring things out on his own, snapped that, whilst the humans within the forest - and for a good range outside of the forest - were off-limits, he had said nothing about humans anywhere else in the country.

Hades was elated by the realisation, as well as slightly embarrassed that he'd been too busy protesting the rule to actually stop and think about ways around the rule. Even so, he'd not had the best of experiences outside the forest's boundaries - admittedly he'd been a helpless, human child then, but still - and it took him a couple of days before he made his decision, said farewell to Nye, and set out upon his journey.

Unfortunately for Hades, his departure came the day before Nye received the latest news from the serpents around Hogwarts, and so he was left unaware that the basilisk who resided there had been, briefly, awakened by the Dark Lord. With the pessimism and patience that befitted Nye's age, however, the serpent decided that such news would hardly be spoiled by waiting for Hades return.

***

Nye had told him that he'd know when he passed over the outer boundary; the boundary beyond which any human was fair game. Nye had also advised him that it might be better to stick to non-magical humans, at least at first. Hades, however, unless it was one of Nye's 'break this rule and die' rules, was much more in favour of learning by a process of trial and error. Even nearly getting himself trampled by a stag on his first hunting trip hadn't dissuaded him from the mindset...although it ~had~ taught him the value of caution and cunning against opponents much larger than himself.

Needless to say, Hades thought he'd probably have recognised the end of the 'no hunting' zone even without Nye's forewarning. It was similar in sensation to moving through an ice-cold waterfall into a sunlight-warmed pool of water, except it wasn't wet, of course. As soon as he felt it, Hades' eyes took on a predatory gleam, and he flicked his tongue out to taste the air; if he'd comprehended pity, he might have felt it for the unfortunate whose fate it was to cross his path...

***

It was cases like these, Stephen Holmes - Sherlock to his friends - thought, that both made his job interesting, and made his job hell. Of course he wouldn't wish death on anyone, not seriously, but without murders there would be no need for Senior Investigating Officers, such as himself, to investigate them. No idiot wished himself out of a job either...well, maybe dustbinmen did... Anyway, the odd murder that ~did~ occur in his area was of enough importance for him to get the call to clean off his pips and head over to the scene, and anything that got him away from that damned desk and thrice-damned paperwork was more than welcome.

Alas, because murders weren't the norm - not like in the USA thank God - the whole thing tended to become a media circus too damn fast for his liking. How were his team supposed to do a proper job of recording and searching the scene and immediate area, with reporters and cameramen hanging all over them, hoping for an off-hand comment that could be blown out of all proportion and sensationalised? Stephen blew out a tense breath and tried to will his frustration at the media down to an acceptible level. He'd all too quickly lost his naive believe that the press would ever cooperate willingly, or indeed display any sense of sensitivity or morality. Vultures some called them, and he agreed fully.

Stephen parked his car in the small layby where a forensics van was being watched by a nervous young policewoman. He sincerely hoped this would turn out to be a simple case; he really didn't want his superiors harping on about 'tourists being scared away by a maniac on the loose'. Honestly - if anything it would ~attract~ tourists.

***

At first it had seemed like a cut-and-dried case that would be solved within a week or so. The murderer - or so it had seemed at first - hadn't had a clue what they were doing, breaking both their victim's arms and legs in the struggle before violently smashing their head into the steering wheel until, presumably, they lost consciousness or died; that was the conclusion both Stephen and the forensics team had drawn at the time.

Now, it seemed that they couldn't have been more wrong. In fact, if it hadn't been for the fingerprints all over the place that they couldn't identify, it seemed as though the driver had simply gone into convulsions and had battered ~himself~ to death. The apparent snakebite on his hand, whilst strange and a possible factor, had been ruled out as the cause, as the toxicology screen had come back negative. The most likely theory at the present moment was that, having thought he'd run over a snake - probably a grass snake, or so the 'experts' had said - he'd pulled over and gone to investigate. The dead man - John Dane - was the kind for whom that behaviour was typical, or so his family seemed to think. The snake had been very much alive - and understandably pissed off, Stephen presumed - and had repayed his 'kindness' by biting him in the hand before slithering off. John had then gone back to his car, only to suffer a mysterious series of convulsions that were so strong they had caused him to break both legs, both arms, and to beat himself to death on the steering wheel of his car.

But then, where did the mysterious fingerprints come from? A walker or vagrant perhaps? Maybe they'd seen John having convulsions and had tried to help him, only to panic and flee when they realised he was dead... It was unlikely, but possible, and really, there weren't any more plausible scenarios. Unless the owner of the fingerprints turned themselves in - and he thought it more likely the scientists would successfully land a probe on Mars - and stated that they had murdered the man, the case looked likely to close with a label of 'accidental death'. Forensics wouldn't be happy that they hadn't managed to ascertain ~why~ John had suddenly gone into convulsions, but they'd have to live with it.

So why, Stephen wondered, did he have a gut instinct that there was more to the case than there seemed to be?

***

Hades hadn't hung around long after the man's convulsions had ceased, only long enough to transform into a human and determine that his victim was quite thoroughly - and messily - dead. He supposed, for an unplanned and thus completely guess-based dosage of venom, that it at least made a good benchmark from which to judge subsequent attacks. Non-magical animals, he had found, required less venom than their magical counterparts; it made sense that non-magical humans would therefore require less venom than magical humans. He would have to test the theory out, but he would wait until later; the magical humans stood a better chance than the non-magical humans of actually figuring out what had happened, and consequently stood a better chance of finding him.

By the time the body was discovered, and the police arrived on the scene, Hades was far away, heading South-East at a determined pace.

***

Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody didn't hold muggles in high regard, or at least, not many of them. He supposed, however, that with them not knowing - or not supposed to know - about the magical world and all its various dangers, that there was justification for them not recognising someone who'd ~obviously~ been tortured to death with the cruciatus curse. Still, it was unusual to say the least - if it ~was~ a death eater attack - that the Dark Mark hadn't been in the sky...

But one isolated incident, however paranoid he was, did not a conspiracy make. Mad Eye carefully removed the page of the muggle paper reporting the incident, folded it, and placed it carefully inside one of the pockets of his jacket. He would see whether any more such incidents occurred before he started actively asking questions.

***

Stephen used every swearword he could think of when the call came in barely four days later. Another suspicious death, this time in Faringdom. It was rare that he actually took time off work, but sods law that, the moment he did, a call would come in of enough importance to warrant calling and 'requesting' that he attend the scene. He supposed the fact that his planned day of fishing and relaxing had just gone down the tubes was his superior's twisted revenge for having assured the man that the death of John Dane was a one-off, freak occurrence.

He'd sincerely hoped it was, despite the gut feeling that said otherwise. It was rare for his gut instinct to be wrong, but not always possible to provide the evidence that proved it right. Thus it was, with a forboding sense that the two deaths would a) turn out eventually to be linked, and b) not be the last, that Stephen Holmes shrugged out of his casual clothes and into a suit; time waited for no one, even the dead, and he had a crime scene to attend.

***

Hades was happier with his second victim. It had been another man, roughly the same build and weight as the first, so, not wanting a repeat of the convulsions the first had suddenly entered into - he wanted to find out the right dosage of venom to knock them out first because that required precision; killing could be done with about twice the amount of venom it took to stun something, that he knew to be a general rule - he had accordingly injected less venom into the wound.

That it seemed to take a while for the venom to actually start working in humans Hades knew, instinctively, was because of the different physiology, although he only had the understanding to class it as being because they were 'different'; had he been asked to explain how, he would have struggled to express the instinctive knowledge that most humans were less fit and larger than most other creatures he'd experimented on, thus meaning the venom had further to go to reach the nerve centres and was moving slower in the first place.

So it was that Hades bit the young man - on his way to visit his parents during the summer break at University - and slithered away to watch from the undergrowth for the five minutes it took the student to find his first-aid kit, roughly bandage the bite, and get back into the car. In a way it was fortunate that the young man took so long, because barely had he begun driving away when the venom finally kicked in. Hades saw enough to see the young man slump into unconsciousness, and then, already knowing it was pointless to try and chase the car to see when the venom wore off, slithered across the road and South-East once more.

Hades had thought it pointless to chase the car because it could move faster than him, and his venom did not affect them, when he could actually pierce their skin - his memories of cars were old and disjointed, and many of his assumptions that they were actually creatures who served men was based on the vague memories he had of Vernon Dursley talking to his car as though it were alive. But cars were neither alive nor capable of making decisions independent of their drivers, and as the young man had slumped, his foot had become wedged over the accelerator.

The road was straight for a good distance; far enough that when it finally turned, the car ploughed straight into an oak tree with enough force to send the driver head-first through the windowscreen, wrenching his foot free of the accelerator.

***

It was the snakebite, Stephen mused, comparing the autopsy photographs of the bites from both men. The only link - besides the obvious similarity in build and weight - was the snakebite; and that they'd been driving Ford Fiesta cars, but that, given the number of Fiestas around, was likely to be a coincidence.

The theories had played themselves out in reverse this time, going from suspected accident - they'd ruled out alcohol or drugs at the hospital when the young man had been rushed there by ambulance, already in a coma - to accidental death when he died in the Intensive Care Unit despite the best efforts of the doctors and nurses, to murder when the snakebite had been discovered.

Stephen was a firm believer in the old adage 'once accident, twice coincidence, three times enemy action'. He wasn't going to wait for a third victim, however. Already - and despite some sceptical mutterings from a few of his team - he'd had John Dane's folder pulled and had started a murder board. Now he was staring at it as though it held the answer and would reveal it if only he stared at it long and hard enough. Perhaps it did, and would, but for the moment he was pondering the snake bites - they couldn't be anything else, they'd ruled everything else out - and wondering what sort of snake, or snakes, they were dealing with. A murderer who used snakes as a weapon? Or maybe it was animal rights activists releasing dangerous foreign snakes - who fortunately wouldn't survive long in the UK's climate. There were too many coincidences if it was the latter, but the former just didn't seem possible...or was it?

It was while he was trying to pin down the vague memory that made him think controlling snakes might be possible that the phone rang, breaking his concentration completely. Fully prepared to snap at whoever had the ill-timing to phone at that moment, Stephen picked the phone up and growled an unfriendly, but positive, response when the caller checked his identity. Minutes later, having heard what said caller had to say, Stephen slammed the phone back into the cradle and swore loudly enough to send everyone in the outer office scurrying to look busy.

In a decidedly black mood, Stephen grabbed his coat from the stand and headed out, barking orders for assembling a murder investigation team as he went. It seemed that, almost as if laughing at his determination to not let there be a third murder, the mysterious snake-wielding murderer had struck again.

***

Hades had 'played' with his third victim. This time it was a woman, a local from Wantage, out walking her dog as afternoon became evening. He had killed the dog first, whilst it had been voiding its bowels, taking advantage of the woman's turned head to swiftly and silently eliminate the beast before it could warn her of danger.

She had screamed and rushed to the dead creature's side when she had seen it lying there, two pinpricks of blood stark against the short white hairs at its throat. Hades had decided he liked human female screams the most then, high and piercing, the sharp tang of horror and sorrow almost sweet on his tongue, not like the first male, whose voice had been low and rough, pain, fear and terror producing a bitter, acrid sweat that stung the senses.

He'd let her nearly glimpse him a few times, circling her with a soft rustling of undergrowth and shifting of shadows that had her frozen on the spot, wide-eyed and trembling in fear, dead dog forgotten. She gave off a thick, musky fear-scent, and Hades wasn't entirely sure whether it had been his venom, or whether she'd fainted when his fangs had slipped into her exposed ankle.

It had taken her nearly 12 minutes - the time it took to travel 160 metres - before she stirred and opened her eyes, disoriented and confused. She'd screamed anew when she 'rediscovered' the corpse of her pet, but Hades had been rapidly becoming bored. He'd discovered how long his venom would keep a human down for, and also that further precious time was gained by the subsequent confusion when they did awake. But he'd wanted to hear her scream more, not listen to the sobbing and wailing that she had switched to as she'd tried to figure out what had happened; what was happening.

He didn't play with her the second time, simply biting her again without warning, fangs sinking into the meaty flesh of her calf below where her cut-off trousers ended. She had screamed almost immediately, and had continued screaming for nearly thirty minutes before he had decided it was time to move on, and had 'mercifully' bitten her once more - in her side this time - and killed her.

***

Definitely snakes, Stephen concluded with a sigh. He'd put a rush on the autopsy reports, and they made grim morning reading. The dog had died instantly - no signs of a struggle - bitten once in the neck; bitten once, like the first two male victims. Yet on the woman they had found three bites; why had it taken so much to kill her?

Stephen had asked the herpetologist - the man insisted on his 'proper' title, although within the office they simply referred to him as 'the snake guy' - whether the snake's venom might have been weakened after having killed the dog, but he'd given him quite a condescending look and had then explained, rather patronisingly, that fresh snake venom was more potent than venom that had been stored in the fangs for a while.

That, of course, had led to the speculation that more than one snake had been used. The herpetologist had conceded that such might be the case, but that if very aggressive snakes were being used - which was likely since 'all' snakes were more likely to run from humans if they could - they were as likely to turn on each other, or even their handler, as they were to turn on the intended victim.

And then there was the slight matter of the ~type~ of snake being used; something they still couldn't pin down. The herpetologist was adamant that whilst there ~were~ snakes whose venom could act almost instantaneously on a creature the size of the Yorkshire Terrior that had been killed, a) the venom would have most certainly turned up in the toxicology screen, and b) the potency would have caused physical damage around the site of the bite. But toxicology showed nothing for any of the three - four if you counted the dog - victims, and the bite wounds were clean puncture marks.

The herpetologist was adamant that it was no snake, and yet could offer no other plausible explanation, except, at the end of what had been a very frustrating day for all involved, to throw his hands up in disgust at the police's insistence that it ~was~ a snake, and to leave with the bitterly sarcastic comment that if it was, it had to be a magical snake that was able to defy the rules of biology.

The rest of the team had a good laugh over that, but Stephen was thoughtful and not so sceptical. After all, he'd had a run in with the 'impossible' back when he was still a mere beat officer, a rookie beat officer...

***

That Wednesday morning, despite already having begun the procedures used in the rare serial-killer cases they had dealt with, the hunt became official.

Quietly slipping into his office as everyone bemoaned having to work a case with so few leads, Stephen made the phone call that would lose him his job in disgrace if it was ever discovered...and if it didn't solve the case for him...

***

The Friday edition of the Daily Mail didn't disappoint him. Unfortunately it landed on his desk along with another case file, both propelled by his superior. The expression on the man's face said clearly 'I know you're the leak, I just can't prove it...yet - solve this case or your arse is out of this job', but he said nothing aloud, instead turning away and exchanging greetings with a couple of officers as he made his way to his own office. The slam of the door echoed through the outer office, and a few people winced and glanced sympathetically in Stephen's direction.

It was well known that Stephen Holmes and his boss, Christian McIntyre, didn't get along, though few knew why. None of them would have believed, even if they had known. Instead of the truth - that Christian was a Squib and resented that Stephen, a muggle, had a line of contact with the wizarding world - it was believed that Christian resented Stephen's rapid rise through the ranks, and felt that the younger man was eying ~his~ job. They were both content with that assumption, and usually managed a civil - if somewhat cold - working relationship. There were times, however, when said relationship came under great strain, and usually for no apparent reason.

Ignoring the Mail - he ~was~ the leak, so he knew what would be in the article - Stephen instead flipped open the case file, and suppressed the urge to vent his anger on the desk as another dead person stared blankly up at him from the first scene photograph. The worst of it? It was a young girl, only - he checked the biography sheet - 13 years old, making a routine journey back from a friend's house.

Apparently she'd told her parents she might stay over the night, so no one had raised the alarm until the friend had phoned from the stables - she had two horses - at the ungodly hour of 4am, asking whether she was not coming over, and should she take care of the horses for her? The poor girl had only been a few hundred yards from her doorstep; she would have been discovered by the first people to go to work lying, as she was, in the middle of the road leading into the large cul-de-sac. The autopsy put her death at just after midnight.

There was a single snakebite on her right shoulder...

That gave him pause for a moment. He was no herpetologist, but he knew there were damn few snakes who could rear up high enough to bite someone on the shoulder, even if the girl had been struggling to make 5' in height; that still put her shoulder a good 4' off the ground. But there were no low-hanging branches from which the snake might have hung down, and no evidence to suggest that it had dropped onto her shoulders.

Once again it was a dead-end case. No witnesses, and what few clues there were didn't add up. He could only hope that his contact would be able to shed some light on events.

***

He hadn't meant to kill the girl so quickly, but he had sensed the taint of magic on her, and she had spotted him shadowing her as she made her way home; he knew from the way her breathing had suddenly hitched and her stride had faltered for a moment. He had sharpened his vision then, berating himself for carelessness as he had sensed the wooden stick that the humans with magic used to channel it.

But now he knew, it didn't take any more venom to kill a magical human than it did to kill a non-magical human.

Unaware of the panic that this death would cause, completely unaware of his proximity to London, Hades continued on his journey of exploration, now heading South-West.

***

Alastor Moody was grimly satisfied by the artical that told him his gut instinct and paranoia had been well founded. He had never really expected muggle contacts to turn up anything of worth that the Aurors didn't already know about, and yet he'd gone with the instinct - even as a rookie who could've been kicked out for his actions - and neglected to inform the obliviators that they'd missed a young muggle policeman. He'd also set up a method by which said young policeman should bring anything of interest to his attention; he hadn't particularly cared that the means could cost his source his job, if anything it reduced the likelihood of spurious mysteries being brought to his awareness. It might have taken 29 years, but it seemed that his foresight as a rookie might be paying dividends now.

Still, Moody wouldn't have been Moody if he believed it would be as easy as that. Dumbledore, whilst playing his cards close to his chest, would have told him if his pet death eater had told him of any of his master's plans. Or at least, would have told him if doing so wouldn't interfere with his own plans.

All of which meant that either it was an independent action by someone and thus Severus Snape didn't know about it - he wouldn't rule out muggles just yet, they could be quite inventive when it suited them, as anyone who'd done a stint as an obliviator knew - or it somehow fell into whatever plans Dumbledore had. If it was the latter he would have to tread very carefully; the old man was still powerful and not one to cross. But then, Alastor had never backed away from a challenge, nor heeded warnings to cease investigating unless they were backed up with a damn good reason; he hadn't gained his scars by turning a blind eye after all...

***

"Great Malvern, Faringdom, Wantage and Thatcham..." Stephen jumped several inches at the gruff voice and turned to see a man studying the map with the murder locations plotted on it. He hadn't heard anyone come in, and he hadn't been ~that~ engrossed in going over the case profiles for the third time that morning.

"Who...?" But even as he asked, he knew the answer. This was Alastor Moody, twenty-nine years older than the last time he'd seen him, and looking every minute his age - and more, if he was honest - from what he could see anyway.

"It'd be Thatcham that's got 'em up in arms then." Moody made a clicking sort of sound with his tongue, although whether it was in approval or disapproval Stephen couldn't tell. "'twas no muggle killed there - that girl was a witch, and both her parents too." Stephen found himself suddenly uncertain.

"So your...police...are looking into the case as well?" He queried, uncharacteristically hesitant. He couldn't lay aside the knowledge, the memory, that this man, only a year or so older than he was, had once lost an eye and continued fighting. It didn't matter that it had been his intervention that had probably saved Moody's life - Stephen knew nothing of life debts after all - when all he could see when he looked at the back of the man's head, and the strap that had to be an eye-patch, was a youthful face reduced to a bloody mess, its lips drawn back in a determined grimace that screamed 'victory or death'.

"Nay lad." Moody answered giving a bark of laughter. "Most likely been writ' off as an encounter with one of the naster magical snakes in the country. They'll not have even glanced at the muggle papers, much less seen the likenesses."

"Likenesses?" Stephen seized on the word, clinging to it hopefully after the crushing news that the case didn't even ~exist~ in the wizarding world, never mind there being any leads there.

"The bites - and the convulsions of course." Moody turned from the board, facing Stephen for the first time since he'd announced his presence. Stephen forced himself to bite back the gasp of shock and horror, although he lost the battle to keep all traces of his shock from his face.

The years, and probably his job, had not been any kinder to Alastor Moody than they had been on the day they had met. He was, indeed, sporting a black eye-patch over his left eye, which, whilst doing an admirable job of hiding the ruin directly behind it, did absolutely nothing to hide the massive scarring and distortion of the face around it. His other cheek was almost as badly scarred, with one scar ending just above the right eye, suggesting a very lucky near miss.

When Moody took a step forwards, twisted grin showing how much he was enjoying the effect his appearance was having on Stephen, there was a dull wooden thunk that sent Stephen's mind screaming back to all the old pirate movies he'd ever seen, and when he looked down, sure enough, from just above the knee, the rest of Moody's right leg was a wooden 'peg' that Stephen felt sure had gone out with the Victorian era.

"You need a parrot." Stephen offered weakly, feeling behind him for the chair he'd been sitting on - when had he risen? - and slumping back into it as Moody chuckled harshly. The humour died quickly though as Moody's face turned serious once more.

"I don't know the purpose behind this - not flashy, not marked with the dark mark - but whoever's behind them is using dark magic; possibly a death eater training their spawn to follow their footsteps." Moody turned and stepped back to the board again, causing Stephen to wince as the wooden foot clunked once more. "This'un - cruciatus caused the convulsions; poor sod was lucky enough to beat himself to death before he went insane." He tapped John Dane's pin. Stephen wondered how bad the cruciatus was for it to cause insanity, and for death to be such a mercy, but he didn't ask.

"These'uns - the killing curse for the dog, cruciatus and then the killing curse for the woman, straight killing curse for the girl." He tapped the relevant pins - Wantage and Thatcham - and then paused, moving his finger back to rest on the pin for Faringdom. "This'un..." He shook his head. "This'un, only thing I can think is imperio; suggested suicide." Moody fell silent again, almost glaring at the board and the information displayed there, almost accusing it of hiding the answers.

"And the snakebite?" But Stephen thought he might know the answer to that. "Cover up, right?" Moody nodded absently.

"I'll see what favours I can call in - maybe I can stir some interest in the case, above or below board." Stephen opened his mouth to utter his thanks, but the words were lost as Moody, with barely a whisper of sound, vanished from sight.

Gaping at the spot where the wizard had been, Stephen finally shook himself from his stupor and grabbed the lockable journal from his desk drawer. He needed to write down what Moody had said before it slipped from his mind.

Engrossed in his task, he never heard, minutes later, as Moody slipped quietly out of the office the same way that he had entered - under an invisibility cloak.

***

Both buoyed and frustrated by Moody's information, Stephen fretted through Sunday by reading his notes over and over, hoping that there might be something, anything, that would give him a lead he could follow. There was nothing.

Monday morning brough more bad news in the form of another death - this one in Salisbury - and to his chagrin all Stephen could really do was thank God that the killer hadn't headed into London. Perhaps it was because there was a greater risk of being caught, but whatever the reaon, Stephen was just glad that he didn't have to deal with the media - and public - uproar that a murder in London would have caused.

But by the time he reached the end of the week - there had been another two murders on Saturday, one in Honiton and the other in Crediton - Stephen was about ready to throw in the towel with frustration. Christian was, with a sort of unholy glee deep in his eyes, leaning on him to find something - ~anything~ - that they could use to reassure the public - and more importantly the beaurocrats - that yes, they were making progress in catching the serial killer the media had nicknamed 'The Serpent'.

Roadblocks, appeals, attempts at tracking whoever was responsible through his snakes, nothing brought forth anything other than the usual crank calls - and even some of them were starting to look tempting, if only for ~something~ to report. The problem was, as Stephen well knew, and suspected that Christian also knew, was that if the murderer ~was~ a wizard, then it would have to be the wizards who stopped them - and Moody had told him the wizard police didn't even have the case running!

Depressing as it was, it brought with it a more depressing thought. Obviously whatever was happening, if caused by a wizard - as it most likely was, he wasn't going to lie to himself - was not of great concern to the wizarding law enforcement bodies. Would they take any action if one of their kind were to decide that non-wizards were inferior and should be wiped out, the way Hitler had decided the Jews were inferior and were 'poluting' the 'purity' of the Aryan race? It was a scary thought, but not as scary as the realisation that, if a war broke out in the wizarding world, it might spill out into the non-wizarding world - and how were 'mere non-wizards' meant to defend themselves against something they didn't even know existed?

Moody, he thought glumly, still hadn't gotten back to him. Not that he had really expected him to, but still, it would have been...well, maybe not 'nice', but polite certainly. Then again, Moody had never struck him as being the polite type. Dealing with people who would quite calmly inflict the injuries that had been inflicted onto Moody, not to mention using the cruciatus - he'd looked it up in a latin-english dictionary and found that it meant torture - on someone until their mind broke, dealing with 'people' like that, Stephen thought the loss of politeness was only to be expected.

Devoutly praying that, as serial killers were sometimes wont to do, the culprit went to ground - ~soon~ - and stayed there, Stephen switched the lights off, closed and locked the office door, and went home for the weekend.

***

Moody's enquiries, both subtle and not-so-subtle, had gotten him nowhere. If it ~was~ a death eater responsible for the string of deaths, they weren't bragging about it. The strange thing was, he ~knew~ the Ministry monitored magical use across the country, and yet when his contacts told him that nothing of the magnitude of an Unforgivable - never mind multiple Unforgivables - had been detected, he didn't think they were lying.

A masking spell or ward? He'd never heard of a spell that could do more than mask the spell being cast, and a ward would put out enough power to warrant investigation whether it was concealing magic or not. For once in his life, Alastor Moody was at a loss.

Then there was the matter of the snake bites. Although he'd let Stephen assume that he thought they were a cover-up, he didn't. A death eater - or anyone with balls enough to be torturing and killing muggles out in the open as they had been - simply wouldn't bother with a cover-up. No, the snake bites were the key, he was sure of it, though quite what part of the puzzle they formed, and where they fitted, he couldn't see, no matter how he turned it over in his mind.

Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Hogwarts...and Albus Dumbledore.

***

There were a lot of questions running around in circles in Alastor Moody's mind as he apparated to the front gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Foremost of those he wanted answered was to know what, exactly, had happened at Godrics Hollow on October 31st 1981, because after spending two days trying to connect Unforgivables and snakes, the only link he had been able to find was...well, disturbing to say the least.

He had a suspicion that the Dark Lord might not, as the wizarding world thought, have been ~completely~ destroyed some twelve years ago, and if he hadn't...

Better that thought remained unfinished, Moody decided, limping quickly up the path that led to the main doors of the castle. He hadn't forewarned Albus of his visit - no need to let the old man have more time than could be helped in which to prepare a tale - but he doubted that his presence had gone unnoticed. Albus was sharp enough, despite his age, if he did have any knowledge of the muggle murders, he would know that they were the reason for the visit - nothing else was happening in the wizarding world to warrant such concern, or such caution to avoid a possibly-unsecure floo connection.

Of course, he also wanted to know what the old man had planned for this year. Not that he expected to be given anything more than cryptic hints. But with the strange attacks on muggles that seemed to have only one, grim explanation, the strange events at Hogwarts - dismissed by most as the whimsical fantasies of children determined to alleviate the boredom of structured lessons - took on a new, and disturbing, light. It seemed to Moody that Dumbledore had changed his tactics for some reason - and not necessarily for the better.

But that was another thought he intended to keep to himself. It was not, after all, wise to question the sanity of a very powerful wizard where said wizard might find out about it.

***

Dumbledore ~hadn't~ known about the murders, at least, not the muggle murders. He'd known about the young girl, Felicity Kent, but her death had been in the papers and, as he'd told Stephen, written off as an accident. No, Dumbledore hadn't known about the murders beforehand, but in the brief moments before he regained his composure, he had slipped enough for Moody to catch the impression that he might know who was behind them.

As expected, the old man had been typically close-mouthed about his plans for the next year, the events of previous years, and, most importantly, the events of twelve years ago. But he had answered the key question - where is Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord; is he safe? - with a resounding affirmative. Moody didn't think it was just paranoia that made him extremely suspicious of such a straight answer, especially from Albus Dumbledore.

Alastor left Hogwarts feeling, as he always did after a conversation with Dumbledore, that he had more questions than he had arrived with. He definitely didn't have any further leads on the muggle murders beyond what he had already speculated, but if he ~was~ blowing things out of all proportion - as Albus had hinted that he was - and it ~was~ 'merely' an overly-cautious death eater practising their Unforgivables, then it would blow over soon, and Stephen would have a 'case unsolved' to file and forget.

He knew his contact wasn't going to be happy at the prospect.

***

Three days after Alastor Moody's unfruitful visit to Albus Dumbledore, Hades killed his last victim in Gulval. He had travelled almost to the Southernmost point of the country, killing as he went, learning what there was to learn about his venom and its working on humans. Now, however, he felt the urge to return home, to Clipstone forest and Nye. There were rumours circulating in the serpent world, rumours he had not missed on his travels, and he wanted to know the truth in them.

***

Frustrated and angered by his inability to do anything about the murders, Stephen had been reduced to doodling patterns between the pins marking the murder sites. It didn't help his humour when he glanced down at the latest pattern, noting that, if he turned it slightly and used his imagination, it looked like the eye of some devilish being; he could almost see it smirking at his impotence.

Snarling silently, he tore the page from the notepad and dropped it over the bin, never noticing that it missed, drifting instead to rest by the side of the desk. It had been a month since the last murder, what he hoped was, truly, the last murder, and though he wanted nothing more than to believe it ~was~ over, there was still the sense of failure at how little they'd actually been able to do.

Weariness washed over him as the office door opened and closed with a barely audible click, and he looked up, suddenly feeling by a desperate hope that faded all too fast when Alastor Moody shook his head.

"Whoever it was, they have either paranoia to match me, extremely powerful friends, or both." Moody admitted heavily, sounding as frustrated as Stephen felt. "Think that was the last attack though."

"You're sure?" Stephen asked, relief warring with disbelief. He'd hoped, prayed even, but if there were no more deaths - at least that could be attributed to the same 'attacker' - then he might just manage to cling on to his career. Moody nodded.

"If they're paranoid they'll stop now Dumbledore's looking for them." He couldn't help but feel smug at that - for all Albus'd pretended ignorance that brief slip had been noteworthy enough to make a point of monitoring him for the next few days. His hunch had paid off when a few of his contacts in the Ministry had reported Dumbledore suddenly asking questions about unauthorised magic usage in the South.

"And if they're not - if they're hiding behind powerful friends?" Moody's grin broadened, twisted into a truly evil smirk by the scarring on his face.

"They'll be made to stop - however powerful their friends are, they won't want to attract Dumbledore's attention if they have anything to hide." Stephen felt the ball of tension in his stomach relax and vanish, a weight seeming to lift from his shoulders. The investigation wasn't officially over of course, but knowing that in three weeks or so it would all be over due to a lack of leads and no new deaths...it was a relief to say the least.

***

On August 21st, it was officially announced that the search for 'The Serpent' had ceased, the case closed without conclusion; blissfully unaware of the chaos he had caused, with attention only for the tales of a Dark wizard awakening a Basilisk, Hades had been back in Clipstone forest for nearly three weeks.

***

Alastor hadn't been expecting the firecall from Albus Dumbledore, and so the Headmaster of Hogwarts found himself hastily dodging a rather nasty blinding curse when he stuck his head into the flames. Moody, of course, found the incident most amusing, and in his good humour had agreed to go to Hogwarts to meet with the Headmaster before it really registered what he was doing.

It wasn't, though, as if he'd ever had a choice in the matter. In some ways, Alastor reflected, once more making sure that he got his 'unwise' thinking over with before he had to face Albus directly, he was as leashed to Dumbledore as Snape. It was some consolation then, that Snape, a death eater, was treated so benignly...

***

By the time Moody left Dumbledore's office, he was as shaken as he'd ever been. The ground had been taken from under his feet, replaced with featureless marshes through which he was supposed to navigate from now on. And it wasn't the fact that Harry Potter was missing, believed taken and possibly being corrupted by a group Dumbledore had named the 'Phantoms', no...it was Snape.

Alastor Moody had done some questionable things in his time, both as an Auror, and as a member of Albus Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. Questionable things that, were the right people to find out about them, would guarantee he would be ~wishing~ for a life sentence in Azkaban. He wasn't proud of his past actions, but neither was he regretful; he had done what he deemed necessary, at the time and in the situations, to achieve the required end-goal. The ends justified the means - it was the same principle that Dumbledore believed in, the reason Moody had agreed to join the Order in the first place.

But he still had his morals, his own code of conduct. He did not abuse his power, either as an Auror or a wizard, and he had ~never~ harmed anyone without good reason, death eater or innocent. Albus Dumbledore, it seemed, had broken at least two of those three golden rules, possibly all three if he had indeed set up the situations with the Philosopher's Stone and the Chamber of Secrets.

Severus Snape was...well, a Dementor had more sense of self than Snape currently had. How much of that was due to Lucius - Dumbledore had hinted that Snape's predicament was due to him somehow managing to slip his leash and fraternise with his former, possibly current, lover - he wasn't sure. But one thing Alastor Moody ~did~ know, Severus Snape had a vast amount of scarring - both mental and physical - that he knew for certain, having secretly read the reports on the Unholy Trinity, had ~not~ been caused by the Malfoys. Damage that, really, could only have come from one other source.

***

Lost in his troubled thoughts, Alastor Moody, just as he had failed to notice when it had stuck to his boot, failed to notice the muddied and torn sheet of note paper as it finally came free and dropped to the floor...

AN: 'Mortifer' - 'death bringer', just in case people were wondering about the title, and no, no particular significance besides the fact that Hades is bringing death to various people. Heh, this didn't quite go where I was expecting it, but meh, it seems to have done some forshadowing/interlinking with the next chapter of Corvine *grins*

As an aside, it didn't work into the story in the end, but Stephen's comment on landing a probe on mars, well, I wrote that and then looked at the timeline I had planned for this side story and started wondering. Turns out communication was lost with the USA Mars Orbiter on August 21st 1993 - the day the investigation was closed - just before it was to be inserted into orbit. Not quite a probe, but sometimes my muses really scare me...


End file.
